


The Rain Song

by deadlybride



Series: Physical Graffiti [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mental Instability, Mildly Dubious Consent, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:00:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter what he does, it's going to come to a head, because a Winchester's luck never holds. Until then, he knows he's not going to do anything. He'll deal with the fallout when the time comes. Coward's way out, maybe, but he remembers Death's warning and, no matter what he has to deal with in the meantime, that wall is not going to be scratched.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rain Song

**Author's Note:**

> The canon divergence is slight. Here, we take it as faith that Sam doesn't pray to Cas while they're in Portland, and so no one tells him that he was around being soulless for a year. This would mean, of course, that he'd be far less aware of the wall and the dangers that lurk behind it. What would it mean, then, if he were constantly scratching at the wall without knowing it?

 

Dean can hardly stop looking at him. It's getting ridiculous.

Portland is all damp leaves and sudden misting rain, the smell of wet grass and pavement and coffee. They drive down a quiet street in the late afternoon, looking for a motel Dean remembers being mostly decent, and he tries to focus on the way the trees are slowly slipping over to yellow, how the air hits him in the back of the throat cold and wet and sharp. Sam's on the passenger side, where he's been for six months. There's no earthly reason why Dean should be so hyperaware of his every move. Dean reaches out and flips over the tape and Sam sighs, says, "Santana? Really?" like he has a hundred times, and Dean almost crashes the car with how much he wants to just reach over and haul his little brother into a hug, never let go.

When they find it, the motel is a little shabbier, but the guy at the desk is new and doesn't recognize Dean, doesn't ask any inconvenient questions. Sam takes the keys with an unfeigned, polite smile. Dean's hand fists around the strap of his old canvas bag. He follows Sam down the puddled sidewalk to number six and its ugly pine-panel door and just marvels at Sam's easy gait, the way he's just a tiny bit awkward with both backpack and duffel. He's not polished anymore, not slick or perfect, and after twenty hours in the car he's looking a little tired, worn around the edges.

They get into the room and Sam walks right to the bed furthest from the door, drops his bags and stretches, with a crack Dean can hear.

"You want to shower, or can I—" he says, jerking his head at the bathroom door.

Dean's mouth is dry. "Go ahead." His voice is rougher than it should be and Sam's look turns quizzical, but he doesn't question.

Sam leaves the door cracked between the two rooms, just like they always did—before. Dean stands in the little space between the beds, fingers wrapped loosely around his gun, and listens as water starts to run in the tub, as the shower clicks on. There's the fabric hitting the floor (jacket, then both shirts, quick, and then the metallic click and thump of jeans with the belt still in the loops) and then the porcelain clank of the toilet and the sound of water echoing a little louder. He doesn't know how he'd forgotten until now: as far back as he can remember, lounging on the bed and listening as Sam waited for the shower to get hot, the instant _gotta pee_ reaction it always elicited. The version of his brother he'd been traveling with for the past months was immune, somehow, to that conditioned response Dean had been certain was hard-wired into Sam's bones.

The toilet flushes. Dean closes his eyes, almost dizzy, listens to the metallic chime of the curtain sliding open and closed. "Dude, we have got to go buy shampoo," Sam says, voice muffled. "The motel crap isn't going to do the trick. And no," he calls, a little louder, "I am not going to get a haircut."

"Yeah, I'll just put that on the shopping list," Dean calls back. He shouldn't have to work so much to put the requisite sarcasm in it. Ridiculous, he thinks again, and pushes his fingers tight into the bridge of his nose. From inside the shower there's a little puff of laughter, barely audible over the hiss and slick of water, and Dean drags his fingertips in a harsh slide over his cheekbones and seizes his focus hard. If Sam's in the shower, then there are things Dean needs to be doing. He pushes out a short breath and does them.

Knife under the pillow. Gun on the nightstand. He hangs his Fed suit in the closet and swipes it for creases; after a hesitation he quashes so quickly it can barely become a moment, he does Sam's too. Pizza order: meat lovers, half with black olives. Sam's shower is slowly filling the room with a faint, miasmic fog, because he always turns the water as hot as it can possibly get, comes out scorched pink. Dean unpacks their good white shirts from Sam's duffel and hangs them up on the bathroom door, hopes the wrinkles will come out with just steam and that he won't have to iron them, and wonders if that other Sam had bothered with hot water or not, or if he'd just sluiced down perfunctorily in whatever came out of the tap because it didn't _matter_.

By the time Sam emerges Dean has the room ready and Sam's laptop open.

"Your turn," Sam says, and Dean looks up to find him, yes, pink, scratchy motel towel wrapped around his hips as he digs through his bag. He finds the t-shirt and track pants he's rummaging for and looks up to find Dean staring. "What?"

Dean stands so quickly his vision blurs. "Better not have used all the hot water," he says, and Sam rolls his eyes, on cue.

"Seriously, dude, when are you gonna get through your head that these places have giant water heaters?" He turns away and Dean looks back down at the laptop. From the corner of his eye he catches the easy flicks of motion as Sam steps into one leg of the track pants, then the other, and shimmies them up and the towel off in the same quick way he's done since he was ten and got abruptly shy. It's so smooth and practiced by now that there's not even a glimpse of skin.

"Cheyenne," Dean says, a little too late.

"That was one time. And it was, like, four years ago. Get over it already." When Dean raises his head Sam has one of his old, thin undershirts on, one Dean hasn't seen for a year and a half. Other-Sam didn't bother with pajamas, really.

Dean flips the laptop around on the table and goes to his bag on the bed. "Dinner'll be here in five to ten. See if you can find out where the victim's family lives, assuming the internet hasn't moved on too far without you."

"Ha," Sam says. He comes over to the table anyway. "You got any cash to tip the guy?"

In the doorway to the bathroom, Dean pauses. "Wallet's on the dresser." Sam makes a mild affirmative noise and Dean turns the shower back on, leaves his clothes in a pile on the floor. The water's warm, but not too hot, and he presses his hands over his face and tries very hard not to think.

 

 

He should've been expecting it, really. Sam's looking at him with this expression like he's tasting something and can't quite place the flavor, like there's a name on the tip of his tongue and he's going to spit it out any second. Bobby and Castiel's warnings ring in his ears.

"Familiar how?" he says.

Sam stands on the sidewalk and stares around at the motel's almost-empty parking lot, at the pines separating them from the freeway. His lips are just slightly parted and Dean swallows, looks away. He's been honest, at least—he has no idea why this place would be familiar to Sam, if he's been here before or if it's just random déjà vu. He tries to remember if Samuel or the Sam before had ever mentioned a hunt in Bozeman, but—it's not like they talked much, even when Dean had briefly trusted either of them.

"I don't know," Sam says, and Dean would be relieved if he didn't sound—frustrated. Like if he just dug a little deeper, maybe he'd figure it out.

It's hard to speak past the abrupt obstruction in his throat. "I don't know either, man. Maybe we passed this way with Dad once." Sam's still looking at something Dean can't see and he steps close, claps Sam's shoulder a little harder than he needs to. "Come on, I'll get the room. Start unpacking."

Sam blinks and it's like all the tension drains out of the space. "Yeah, sorry, of course," he says, a little grin tucked into the corner of his mouth, like _stop being an idiot, Sam, all motels look the same_ , like the feeling was foolish, like everything's okay. Dean tosses Sam the keys to the Impala and spins on his heel, plasters on a grin for the girl at reception. Everything is okay, he thinks, and he asks for two queens.

The motel is truly a piece of shit, but when Dean follows Sam into their room it's got a little stained kitchenette, relatively clean carpet, two beds and a working wifi connection. More than they need. Sam drops their bags on one of the beds and runs his hands through his hair, looking tired again, and Dean turns away to hide the involuntary grin that rises in him every time it happens.

"Pizza?" he says, pulling his gun out of the back of his pants. He lays it on the shared nightstand for easy access, then looks up to find Sam staring at the mass-produced print on the wall—some crappy watercolor, streaky pastel swirls and a few blurry pine trees. "Sam?"

"What?" Sam blinks at him, like he's waking up, and Dean raises his eyebrows. "Oh. No. No, let's order from that Chinese place we passed."

"Yeah, sure," Dean says, and Sam gives him a brief smile, but he keeps glancing at the picture. Dean pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials, reading the little takeout menu on the counter in the kitchenette. Dean clears his throat as the phone rings. "You want—"

Sam drags his eyes away from the print and shakes his head. "Same as always," he says. By the time the tinny voice in Dean's ear says _Hong Kong Palace, how can I help you?_ Sam's shaken off whatever it was and has started to unpack properly. Dean closes his eyes and recites their order from well-established memory.

They haven't found their next hunt. Sam spends some time scrolling through local news websites, complaining idly about the quality of journalism in rural towns as though Dean hasn't heard it a thousand times before. Apparently the internet is uninteresting enough that Sam's willing to abandon the laptop and, by the time the food arrives, he's sitting on the edge of Dean's bed, scrolling through the options on the television.

"Dude, they made a Marmaduke movie?"

Dean rolls his eyes and tells the delivery boy to keep the change. "Tell me you want to watch it and I'll send you right back to Hell," he says, and ignores the kid's briefly horrified look as he kicks the door closed.

Sam snorts. "Not interested, just appalled."

Dean puts the bag on the bed and snatches the controller out of Sam's hand. "Here, we'll see if we can't catch you up with something a little more..." He flips through the options, bypassing romance and horror and going straight for action. "Oh yeah, there's an A-Team movie, too."

"Uh, no," Sam says, rummaging in the bag.

"Okay, but you're missing out on parachuting in tanks." Sam makes a disgusted noise and Dean grins. He hadn't thought he'd miss Sam's pickiness, either. "All right, here. Red. Old people with guns, you'll love it."

"Dean—" Sam says, but when Dean turns around Sam's starting to smile.

"Geriatric combat, Sammy!" He presses the buttons to buy the movie and settles back into the headboard, leaning into the thin pillows.

Sam shakes his head, but after a moment he stands and—sits right next to Dean, elbowing him a little until he gets comfortable. Dean takes in a breath, but Sam just reaches for the container of rice and a pair of chopsticks. "If this sucks, and it will, you owe me a movie without a single explosion."

He hands Dean his container of kung pao beef and picks up the stir-fry, sets to mixing the rice in like he's always done. Dean swallows. "Didn't know you'd turned into a wimp."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Right, because hoping for dialogue not written by chimps is so ridiculous." He elbows Dean again, this time with more intent, but then looks back to the television. "Shut up, anyway, it's starting."

The movie isn't actually all that bad, though Dean had chosen it for a joke. It's funny. There's action. Helen Mirren with an assault rifle is worth the two bucks to rent all on its own. Sam mutters a few choice comments under his breath at some key points, but not enough to actually interrupt. Dean's pretty invested in the big climax in Chicago—he hadn't actually seen the movie either, and it's not like they get a lot of opportunities to just dick around like this—when Sam leans over him to dump his empty stir-fry box on the nightstand. It's during the bad guy's speech, though (and Dean just knew that Dreyfuss would be the villain, because, come on) that there's a lot of shifting next to him, and Dean's about to whack Sam upside the head for being distracting when he realizes that Sam has just slid down and turned over and is already halfway to sleep.

He misses the rest of the fight scene. Sam's head is somewhere around Dean's hip, back pressed up against Dean's leg, and it's broad and warm and lax. There's gunshot noises coming from the television, but Dean's entirely focused on how Sam's breathing is already evening out, getting slow and deep. By the time Dean fumbles his own container onto the nightstand Sam's one long line of relaxation against him, weight pressing back enough that Dean knows Sam would probably wake if he tried to move now.

It happened so—fast. Like this is routine, or something, a habit Sam has gotten into. On the television, the movie has wound down to the credits, and Dean frowns at the names scrolling by and tries to ignore the soft expansion of Sam's back against his thigh, the faint heartbeat thudding through his jeans. As adults, he and Sam have never been like this. Not this easy with each other, not touchy-feely or physically close. They only hug anymore when one or both of them has died, for God's sake.

While he's thinking, Sam huffs and starts to move. Dean holds still. He doesn't know what to say. Sam flops onto his stomach, head pillowed on one arm, but his other hand curls into a loose fist just under his chin, the knuckles pressed against Dean's thigh and making little warm spots. Sam wriggles a little closer until the wet puff of his breath is sinking through the denim at Dean's hip. The lamplight is partially blocked by Dean's shoulder, but an angled beam strikes the skin of Sam's throat, of his barely-exposed collarbones, and it's soft, amber-colored, makes Sam look untouched by time. Dean reaches out and tugs the sleeve of Sam's t-shirt back into place and Sam makes a tiny noise, deep in the back of his throat. His face relaxes all at once, the little frown Dean had almost come to consider part of his face gone in an instant.

It reminds Dean, weirdly, of being twelve years old, Sam fragile and skinny at eight, when they were still sharing beds, before Dad started to look for motels with fold-out couches. Before Dad stopped sleeping when they did at all, before taking shifts and napping in the car became the norm. Sam had been just old enough to pretend at self-sufficiency and complain at being treated like a little kid, and still scared enough that he'd let Dean curl around him, would hold Dean's hand in the middle of the night and try not to cry. Dean doesn't know when they lost that. If it's something he should miss.

He reaches for the remote and turns off the television. He leaves the lamp on. His gun's still within easy reach and his phone is in his pocket. Sam sighs in his sleep and Dean reaches down, brushes Sam's knuckles with his fingertips, and then he tilts his head back against the headboard and doesn't sleep.

Around six in the morning, when grey light is just barely starting to filter though the blinds and making the lamp redundant, Sam shifts over onto his back. The loss of his warmth makes Dean's side instantly cold, but he edges off the mattress anyway. Sam's face is still soft with sleep—and he slept like a rock, too, barely moving all night. Dean escapes into the bathroom to take a piss, to splash water over his face and brush his teeth. The residue from their take-out had been bothering him, but with Sam pressed up against his side he wasn't about to move.

He's scrubbing at his back molars, looking out the tiny window next to the sink, when there's a light touch on his shoulder. "Morning," Sam mumbles, when he turns. Dean grunts a reply, around the toothbrush, and Sam skims his hand down Dean's arm with a little smile. There's almost no light in the bathroom, except for what's coming in through the half-open door, and so Dean can't really see much when Sam fumbles at the waist of his jeans.

"Man, why'd you let me sleep in my clothes?" Sam says, around a yawn, and then his pants are open and he's taking a leak, with Dean right—Dean whips around, teeth grinding down against the toothbrush's bristles.

Sam finishes and flushes, and Dean remembers to keep scrubbing only when Sam's nudging him out of the way of the sink with his hip. "We leaving soon?" Sam says, over the sound of washing his hands, and he meets Dean's eyes in the mirror with raised eyebrows.

His face is still soft, the shadows under his eyes gone. Dean pulls the toothbrush out but his mouth is still full of foam, so all he can do is shrug.

"Oh, sorry." Sam steps out of the way and lets Dean spit. He leans on his elbows on the cold porcelain and takes a little more time rinsing than he really needs, but Sam is still just standing there, now apparently looking out the window as Dean had been. "Hey, check this out."

He circles Dean's wrist with his long fingers and so Dean has no choice but to be moved, to stand in front of Sam at the window. He blinks, just seeing the parking lot done in slowly brightening shades of grey and much more aware of Sam's broad presence at his back. "Look," Sam murmurs, pointing over his shoulder, and Dean refocuses to see the soft brown shapes of two deer, lingering under the pines on the other side of the road. While he watches, one of the deer raises its head and appears to look right at them, and Sam huffs out a little, surprised laugh, his chest moving against Dean's shoulders. "Cool," Sam says, and Dean only realizes Sam had been holding his wrist the whole time when he moves away, back into the bedroom, leaving a cool spot where his fingers had been. He keeps his eyes on the deer, watching until an early-morning commuter passes by on the road and they bolt, back into the trees.

By the time he's taken a deep breath and managed to turn around, he finds Sam back on the bed, the laptop open and illuminating the angles of his face with faint blue light. "I'm going to start checking obits," he says, and there's no hint in his expression that anything could be amiss. Nothing out of place. "You want to shower? There's a decent diner down the road, was thinking we could get some coffee before we head out."

"Sounds good," Dean says. He doesn't ask how Sam knows about the diner. He digs a change of clothes out of his bag on what was supposed to have been Sam's bed and moves back into the bathroom. For a second, he considers closing the door, but—they usually don't, and as far as Sam's concerned there's nothing different about today, and so Dean leaves his clothes on the floor, turns his back to Sam, and calmly strips, because nothing's wrong.

 

 

In the car, Sam spreads out his long legs and rolls his eyes at Dean's static record collection and has to constantly push his hair behind his ears when he's bent over a newspaper, and everything seems normal. He asks questions, too, though they're halting. _What happened after I fell_ , and _what's going on with Castiel_ , and _what happened to you, Dean? What did you do?_ He's still Sam, through and through, curious long past the point of it being a fault. Dean tries not to lie.

"I spent almost a year with Lisa," he says. Sam's eyes are steady on the side of his face. "It was—quiet. Normal. Just like you asked, Sammy. Worked in construction, built houses."

There's a pause. "Don't construction workers have to get up at, like, four in the morning?" Sam says, finally. "Can't believe you managed it for so long."

Dean shrugs. He doesn't smile, but his Sam went for the deflection rather than digging in and questioning where it hurt as the other one would've, and the constant rightness of the person sitting next to him is a relief he's not getting over anytime soon. "Wasn't so bad. Didn't have your snoring keeping me up all night, for one thing."

"Yeah, because I'm the one in this family that snores," Sam retorts, voice light, and Dean puts his foot down to pass a slow-moving semi and just grins in response.

He can't tell Sam about the hunts they've been on in the past six months, and he doesn't know more than a fraction of what the other Sam did for the year before that even if he could relate it, and so has to stay vague. He can explain, a little, about the deal with Death, and Sam's no less appalled at the risk but also, gratifyingly, a touch impressed.

"But I can't believe you thought you knew better than a Reaper," Sam says, and then obviously pauses. "No, wait, yes, I can. I can believe that."

"Oh, shut up." He doesn't take his eyes off the road, but manages to land a punch on Sam's shoulder anyway. "Let's just think about how well you'd do, killing some kid just 'cause you were told to. Sam Winchester, stone-cold Reaper? I don't think so."

When Sam doesn't immediately retort, Dean glances over. Sam's no longer grinning. Dean turns his eyes back to the highway, squinting against the looming sunset. They still have three hundred miles before they hit Maple Falls and there's no way they'll make it before dark. "Nah, you're right," Sam says, finally. "Too much stupid, iron-clad virtue. I'd have screwed up the whole spin of the universe by the time I gave Death the ring back."

"Damn right," Dean says, but Sam just tucks himself further into the corner of the seat and looks out the window. He's frowning, but Dean won't ask why.

He's still quiet when they finally roll in to the tiny town, long past the time the few shops and restaurants have closed. There's a cabin a few miles outside of town that Dean knows has been on the market for six months and, since Sam isn't protesting, he heads straight for it. The road's a little bumpy, but he gets the Impala around the trees and into the cabin's clearing with little fuss, even in the pitch-black night, and he parks with the headlights still on so Sam can get to work picking the lock.

It's not much. Even in the random spotlights the Impala gives it, Dean can see why it hasn't been sold. The squat stone square is too small for the rich, not far enough off the road for a hunting cabin, not close enough to a decent town for a rented vacation spot. He slings their bags onto his shoulders and watches Sam fiddle with the inadequate deadbolt, big body leaned up into the doorframe and hair falling in his eyes. In the distance owls are softly calling, and when Dean closes his eyes and strains he can barely hear the far-off slow rush of the river.

The lock tumbles. Dean opens his eyes to find Sam standing up straight, rubbing his forehead. He bites his tongue on the immediate _you okay?_ that surges up his throat. "Well, come on, I ain't carrying all this myself," he says, instead. Sam angles a look at him, but there's no retort, and together they haul in the duffels and backpacks, the few bits of camping gear that have survived their hunts. Inside, the place is nothing but an empty box, as he'd expected, and he and Sam work quickly with long-ingrained habit. Bags in one corner, what little they have in the way of bedding in the middle, guns within easy reach but not where they'll get underfoot in a retreat. There's  a fireplace, but they can't risk the smoke, and so the camping lantern has to do, spreading bright white up from the floor and throwing crazy shadows on the bare stone walls every time they move. The floor's dusty, but they've slept on far worse. At least here their makeshift beds won't be riddled with mysterious stains.

"So, did you figure anything else out?" Dean tries, when the silence has gotten long past awkward. He plops down on his blankets, starts to tug off his boots. Sam's turned away from him, face in shadow. He's sitting with his elbows propped on his knees, hands loosely clasped in front of him, almost like he's praying. "Hey. Case."

Sam—shudders, kind of, like he's got a random chill. "Sorry, right," he says. His face angles a little more towards Dean, just enough that Dean can see the shape of his cheekbone, a flash of white teeth when he talks.

"People disappearing on a hiking trail, right, and the rangers think it's bears. Like it's ever bears." Dean drags up what he can remember from Bobby's phone call. The clearest recollection is the underlying tone of _distract him, keep him working, can't let him pause to think because—what if_. "Bobby said it's been happening for—what, since the forties?"

"Just after the war," Sam says, and his voice is low and a little thick, but at least he's talking. He scrubs his hands over his shins a few times, restlessly, but goes for his bag and the stack of notes.

Dean swallows and opens up his duffel. They've got Gatorade and granola bars and he is damned if they're going to stay at this shitty little cabin for another day without beer, but for now he tosses what he can manage for dinner onto Sam's blankets and stretches out. Sam glances at him, face still more shadow than substance, but Dean just closes his eyes. "All right, let's hear it, Sammy," he says, keeping it light.

There's a pause, but then Sam says, "Okay, get this," and starts explaining his theory. Dean settles back into the makeshift pillow of his jacket and watches the simple dark behind his eyes, lets the familiarity soothe him down towards sleep.

When he next opens his eyes it's pitch-black. He thinks, muzzily, that the batteries on the lantern must have run down, and rolls onto his side. The curtains over the few windows are drawn, too, but even if they weren't the night was cloudy, no hint of moon or stars. He drags a hand over his face and considers whether it's worth fumbling for last night's half-finished bottle of Gatorade, but then Sam takes in a deep, gasping breath and he freezes.

Sam sounds—Dean can't see a damn thing and he knows his brother is only about five feet away, but even as he's rolling up onto his hands and knees it feels like Sam's fifty miles from him. His breath is ragged, cutting off on the exhale with a horrible sound like a whimper, something Dean hasn't heard since Sam was about seven and his nightmares always ended with tears.

"Sam?" he tries, blinking stupidly into the blackness. There's no response. He edges over on his knees, a blind hand reaching out, and his knuckles bump something warm and solid but Sam doesn't stop making that noise. He lets his hand drag over denim and flannel, tracking up Sam's heaving ribs to his shoulder, which is shaking, and Dean shakes it harder, shoves. Sam rolls away and his hand clenches on nothing, but the noise stops.

Sam stops breathing at all, in fact, and Dean's panic clogs up his throat until there's another long, loud exhale. He's relieved enough to sit back on his heels and he props himself up with hands on his knees, letting his head hang between his shoulders. But then—

"Come back," Sam mutters, and his voice is like scraping tires over gravel, like the shredded nerves that come with a broken bone. "Come on, please, don't leave me alone," he's saying, and Dean reaches out a hand toward the awful sound of his voice but there's nothing.

"Sam?" he says again, hardly any breath behind it, but it makes Sam pause.

"Is that—Dean?" Sam says, and the startled, heady hope in it makes goosebumps rise on Dean's forearms. "I can't—I can't see him, if you're going to let me—please, let me see him, please—"

Dean lunges for their bags. He jams a finger against the hard stone floor but doesn't pause, he rips at the zipper of Sam's backpack and plunges in, hand closing around one of the little flashlights in exactly the place it should be. Thank God for army training, he thinks crazily, and then he fumbles for the switch and a little slice of light carves out a spotlight in the thick dark. It's incredibly bright, white and harsh when it tracks across the floor and up to Sam's face, and Sam covers his eyes with a little choked noise. When his hands fall away he looks utterly confused.

Sam has rolled off his blankets, curled on his side on the stone, and when the light glances over his face Dean sees it wet, eyelashes black and damp, but he's not crying. "They aren't—" Sam starts, and he drags himself upright, glances around at the surrounding dark, but his eyes come right back to Dean. He rolls onto his knees. "They  haven't—you're all right?"

"I'm fine, Sammy," Dean says, and he puts the flashlight on the ground. His eyes are adjusting, a little, and Sam's face is barely visible, features blurred and grey. "Are you okay?"

Sam opens his mouth, and closes it. He looks at Dean, and then down at himself, and his hand fists in his own shirt. "Why do I have—where did these come from?" he says, plucking at his sleeves, and the question is so bizarre Dean can't answer, but then Sam says, "Oh, God, he hasn't started, he isn't back," and if Dean's right then Sam is talking about—but that's not—he can't possibly, there's a wall, Death _promised_ , but then Sam has lunged across the brief space between them and taken Dean in his arms.

"I can take it, I know I can," Sam's mumbling, and he's nothing but warm dampness against Dean's throat, on his shoulder. "Whatever you want, I promise, just let me—" He's got his hand clenched so hard at the back of Dean's neck there'll probably be bruises.

"Hey, I'm not going anywhere," he tries, and his hands settle on Sam's shoulders. He's a big guy, Sam, and for a second Dean feels unsettlingly small. He's supposed to be the one doing the comforting, taking care of his little brother like he's always done, but for some reason he feels like Sam is the one holding him up, like there's something broken he can't reach and only Sam can fix. He wraps his fingers into Sam's shirt and says the only thing he can think of. "We're in Washington, there's a ghost or something killing people by a river. We've got to sleep, get out there first thing, see what we can find, Sam, come on."

Sam pulls back. His expression is a tender wreck and Dean's chest hitches at the wet confusion there, but then something shifts. In one second Sam is fragile, brow furrowed and mouth small with incipient grief; in the next his brow evens out, his eyes clear. His lips curl, a little grin tucking into the corner of his mouth and a dimple rising, and Dean takes a deep breath.

"Need your beauty rest, Dean?" Sam says.

Dean does his best to keep his face under control. "Don't stay this pretty without at least five hours, Sam," he says, light and cocky, but Sam's still all up in his personal space, one hand still on the back of Dean's neck and the other warm and low on his waist, and when had it gotten there, why hadn't he noticed?

"Right," Sam says, full of mockery, but when he pulls away his hands linger on Dean's skin.

Dean's nape throbs a little when he moves, shifts back onto his ass. He expects Sam to scoot away, but when he just flops down right there next to Dean, reaching out one long arm to gather his own blankets around him, Dean's not exactly surprised. Sam turns onto his stomach, pillowing his head on his folded-up arms, and it's like the past five minutes never happened. For a few seconds Dean considers pulling away, moving that safe five feet over to what had been Sam's spot, but—but. He shifts around and lies down, the back of his skull cradled by his jacket. Sam's a warm stretch beside him and he doesn't jerk away when a little shifting presses the long weight of Sam's leg against his.

Even with the little lightening of the flashlight, now half-blocked by the corner of one of the blankets and illuminating just a random spot on the floor, the room is pretty much black. Sam's eyes are closed and Dean can hardly make out his face. The dark spreads around them like an endless, deep lake, quiet lapping against the little nest they've formed, but between them there's nothing but warmth. Sam's breath is even. He's safe, again, at least for the moment, and Dean can't help but close his eyes and let that be enough.

He wakes again to the sound of rain. Beside him, the blankets are cool, and he rolls onto his stomach. Sam is standing at the window. It's morning, barely, and the room is full of dull grey light. He props himself up on one elbow and the night rushes back at him, but right now there's the sound of water on the tin roof, Sam upright and rested and drumming idle fingers on the bare window ledge.

"Hey," Dean says. His throat's dry.

Sam glances back at him and the smile he offers is just—sunshine. He turns back to the window and slides the curtain back more, letting in a bit more light and revealing the pines outside, dark green, wet. "Didn't think you were gonna wake up," Sam says. "It's already seven."

He casts a hand out and finds the bottle, still half-full, and gulps until he doesn't feel like his throat is going to shred. "Should've kicked me," he says, finally. "We've got work to do."

Sam shrugs. He's still wearing his clothes from yesterday, all red plaid and grey t-shirt, his hair messy and tucked behind his ears. The only shower they'll be getting today is outside right now, Dean thinks, but he doesn't say anything else. Sam looks... fine. A little oddly fascinated with the rain outside, but whole and healthy and no hint of last night's freak-out in the relaxed lines of his body, where he's leaned up against the rough stone wall.

"You okay?" Dean asks anyway, before he can stop himself.

He gets another glance when he stands up, but Sam only shrugs again. "It's just—it never rained," Sam says, and Dean frowns, because that makes no sense, unless—but then Sam slides the window up and the thick, wet smell of rain fills the room. Dean takes a few steps closer, trying to come up with something to say, and thinks he should be more resistant when Sam's fingers close around his wrist, when he's gently pulled up against Sam's side. Sam says, "I missed rain," and Dean wants to question, but then Sam's hand is sliding up against the curve of his skull and brushing over the bruised spots, and he closes his eyes but he can still smell damp pine, still feel Sam solid and warm at his hip, at the back of his neck, and then a quiet mouth presses into his hairline, at the tender skin of his temple, and he kind of forgets how to breathe.

Sam's mouth lingers there for a few seconds and panic claws at Dean's lungs, but nothing else happens. Sam's hand slides and then his arm is slung over Dean's shoulders, easy and relaxed, and his chest expands in a sigh so deep Dean rocks with it. "I guess we should get going," Sam says.

Dean opens his eyes. When he dares to look up Sam's watching the way the rain purls off the roof. He's fine. "If you get mud in the car I'm going to tan your hide," he says, and it's a blast from the past, like he's seventeen again and Sam's twelve and a half, but it just makes Sam grin.

"Good luck trying, shorty," Sam says, and he pulls away with a swat to Dean's shoulder.

Dean takes a deep breath. If he doesn't understand how Sam can look so content, how he can act like things are okay, it doesn't matter. Dean is—he's _fine,_ and, more importantly, Sam is fine, and so everything is going to be all right.

 

 

On the long drive back east, on their way to Minnesota and some tiny town on the coast of Lake Superior, Sam falls asleep. It's one in the morning and they're halfway there, but for about ten minutes on I-94 Dean very seriously considers jerking the car onto the side of the road. To do what, he's not sure. Scream. Slam out of the car, wake Sam up, demand any kind of explanation. Sneak off into the wild half-dead grass and try to get Castiel to answer, just this once. If he turns to the south at Dickinson they can be at Bobby's in three hours.

Sam shifts, on the other side of the seat. For once all of his limbs are on his half of the bench. Dean glances over, but Sam's still sleeping, head lolling down onto his shoulder and mouth soft. He makes a little noise as he resettles, but it doesn't look like he's about to have a nightmare. On the tape _Teach Your Children_ is playing, low and sweet, and Dean firms his jaw, turns his eyes back to the dark highway, drives.

He's at home here, on a long, straight road, the Impala obedient under his hands and Sam at his side. The clouds that covered Washington haven't left them, blanketing the usually brightly starred North Dakota sky and making the night a little darker. He's reminded of the four years he drove alone. It hadn't been good, exactly, but he'd been fine. As now, he'd turn himself toward a hunt, clear out the distractions and focus on getting in and out clean, as little collateral damage as possible.

Sam makes another little noise, deep in his throat. Dean's hand tightens reflexively on the wheel. He has to admit that getting rid of distractions hasn't been going so well. His heart just isn't in it.

The tape runs out and he flips it over—Simon and Garfunkel, but just when he goes to eject it and grab for something a little less maudlin Sam apparently melts into the seat and starts to snore. Dean sighs and leaves the tape where it is. _America_ reminds him of long afternoons in autumn, stuck at Pastor Jim's with his old record collection and nothing to do but look out the window and dream of other lives, with Sam a tiny, sleepy weight in the curve of his arm. Apparently some part of the memory is hardwired into Sam, too, because right now it doesn't look like he'd wake up if the world started to end. Again.

It was hard, in Maple Falls. He and Sam had interviewed the victims' families as reporters and Sam had been that perfect balance of professional and genuinely sympathetic that had reduced the most hard-edged witnesses to tearful confession for years. They'd visited the little library and combed through the records and Sam had been patient until they finally found the connection. When, finally, they'd hiked down the easy trail past their cabin, down to the falls where the jilted woman had drowned, Sam beat his scissors with rock just like he always did and he'd had to start digging up the bones, rainwater trickling down his neck and Sam's helpful commentary falling on deaf ears. Normal. Perfectly normal, it really was, and yet none of it did anything to dull the sharpening edge of Dean's anxiety. He'd sworn not to mess with it, not wanting to look the gift horse, et cetera, but—the differences were getting harder to ignore. Especially with the way that, when they tumbled back into the cabin wet and muddy, Sam didn't hesitate a second before stripping off all his clothes.

Dean had said something, made some mild objection, but Sam had only rolled his eyes and said _Like it's anything you haven't seen before_ , which was—true, of course, but Dean couldn't shake the feeling that Sam meant something else. They'd left the back door standing open and the rain had been getting louder and louder in Dean's ears, but he couldn't quite drag his eyes away from Sam. Not from the miles of wet skin that were being revealed, because Sam was right, he'd seen it before—but rather from the utter lack of self-consciousness on display. This wasn't the brother who slid from towel to pajamas without revealing anything scandalous; it wasn't even the weirdly vain not-brother who'd flaunted tan skin and muscle like throwing down a gauntlet. _Hey,_ Sam had said, kicking off his soaked-through boxers, _hand me my bag, would you?_ and Dean had, because why not, but the way Sam was just _there_ , just stood bare in front of him, hauling out dry jeans and rubbing a towel over his wet hair, like it was no big deal. Like this wasn't, in half a dozen ways, more intimate than Dean had been with anyone since Lisa, or with anyone before. It was the way Sam paused for a few seconds with his face buried in the towel, vulnerable and unconcerned, and how he'd finally pulled on the jeans over bare hips but left them unbuttoned, and turned to Dean to frown and said something like _come on, get changed, I want to go get something to eat_. What was there to do, after that, but follow Sam's lead, to strip and change right there, back turned, wondering if Sam's eyes were on him and wondering, too, what difference that would really make.

The first wet splats of rain start to hit the car and Dean shakes his head hard. The mile marker he catches out of the corner of his eye is about thirty further on than he's expecting. The tape has moved on to _I Am A Rock_ and he snorts, but leaves it as it is. Beside him, Sam sleeps on, and he thinks, clearly, _My priorities are fucked_ , but he knows he doesn't really mean it. No matter what he does, it's going to come to a head, because a Winchester's luck never holds. Until then, he knows he's not going to do anything. He'll deal with the fallout when the time comes. Coward's way out, maybe, but he remembers Death's warning and, no matter what he has to deal with in the meantime, that wall is not going to be scratched.

 

 

They're in a mostly-okay motel just outside Murray, bruised and resting after a vampire hunt. Dean's slouched at the table, feet kicked up on the other chair, watching as clouds roll in from the west across the dark sky. Last time he'd driven through Kentucky he'd had to dodge tornadoes, but it looks like this will just be a spring storm, cold and vicious.

Behind him, Sam's just getting out of the shower. He takes a long few swallows of beer, keeping his eyes on the window while he listens to the damp flop of the towel dropping to the tile floor, the rustling in a duffel bag. The only light in the room is coming from the open bathroom door, spilling over the grey carpet and one of the beds in a soft, yellowed angle. He can see the outline of his shadowy reflection in the window, can watch when Sam steps out into the room behind him, his skin catching the light. He waits until Sam has stepped into track pants before he clears his throat, says, "You want me to take another look at those stitches?"

"They're fine."

"You want to order something?"

Sam's reflection stills, but Dean refuses to look around. He takes another gulp of the beer—it's a little too warm, because the fridge in the room isn't working. He wonders if Sam is going to snap at him for coddling, but instead he sighs and says, "Honestly, I just want to sleep. If you want to get something go ahead."

He drums his fingers against the bottle, refocusing on the clouds. One of the mattresses squeaks a little as Sam heaves that big body onto it. They haven't turned the television on as a distraction, so there's no noise other than his breath, Sam's, the wind picking up and whistling against the building's old eaves.

He'd almost turned back when they realized it was vampires. Been seconds from it, in fact. That lamprey-bite on the corpse's neck at the morgue—he'd wanted to pull the sheet back up, grab Sam by the elbow and haul ass out of town, out of the whole South. Sam must have seem some fraction of the impulse on his face, though, because he'd frowned and pulled the coroner's attention with some question about the deceased, something they could've guessed the answer to. Given him a little time to control himself. It was right, too, the right thing to do, because how would he have explained that to Sam—to his Sam? It wasn't like he could tell the story about what had happened in Illinois. What he'd done, what Sam had—except it wasn't Sam, not the one who was curling into the mattress behind him right now. If he closes his eyes and concentrates he can remember what it felt like, to have all that power coiled under his skin. It had been very, very easy to empty the nest, that time.

This time, not so much. He pulls his feet off the other chair and stands, gingerly, suppressing a grunt when the bruises on his back pull under his skin.

"You need ice or something?"

He'd thought Sam was already asleep. When Dean looks over he's sprawled onto one side of the closer bed, hair a little damp, one arm tucked under the pillow. He's exhausted, clearly, but still frowns when Dean shakes his head.

"I'm fine, Sammy, don't go all mother hen on me." He holds out a mollifying hand before Sam can try to sit up and bicker. "Seriously. You'll tear your stitches."

It's not much of an argument. Even so, Sam slumps a little more into the mattress, rolls his eyes. "When you can't move tomorrow, don't bitch to me."

He takes the last few warm swallows of the beer. If he were smart, he'd shower now, sluice off the traces of dirt and smoke and blood, let water pound over his aches and erode troubles away. Wait until Sam fell asleep, crawl into the other bed and do his best to get at least a few hours of shut-eye. Instead, he looks out the window again. It's already starting to come down, off to the west, and the wind's loud outside the door. Inside, though, it's warm, and quiet enough, and when he refocuses he catches the gleam of Sam's eyes, watching him in the window.

He shrugs out of his jacket and heels off his shoes, unfastens his jeans and lets the whole mess fall in a dirty pile on the floor. They'll need to go to a laundromat soon, he thinks, and steps over to the bed.

Sam's eyes are half-open, idly tracking his movements as he puts a knee on the mattress, as he slowly sits. "Oh, hang on," Sam murmurs, voice scratched-up and deep, and he pulls the blanket back, makes a space in the nest of sheets and comforter. Dean closes his eyes and long fingers slide around his wrist, and it's easy to sink down into all that warmth and softness, to let a strong hand help him roll onto his stomach so he won't press his bruises into the bed.

He folds his arms under the pillow and presses his cheek into the thin foam. A hand lands on the small of his back, big and warm, and carefully pushes up the hem of his t-shirt, exposing his skin to the cool air. "Can't believe she didn't break your ribs," he hears, and a fingertip traces a line up his spine, a sharp angle over his side, making the shape of the balustrade he'd broken with his back. Then, the fingers spread out, covering almost the whole span of the bruise and sinking heat into his skin.

He shivers, abruptly, but not because it hurts. The hand retreats apologetically anyway. The blanket gets pulled up to his shoulders, instead, and Sam curls a little closer, his knee bumping Dean's calf and his breath coming slow and even against the back of his arm. Dean sinks into the mattress and feels his muscles go lax, lets his weight settle a little into Sam's. It should feel like too much, intrusive, wrong. It doesn't.

 

When he next wakes up, it's slowly. He has no idea how long he slept; after the last few months, he's gotten worse and worse at estimating. Ever since those first tense weeks, Sam restored but not quite the same, nights have been—weird, frankly. He shifts, a little, and there's the warm weight of a hand on his hip, Sam's forehead pressed up against the back of his neck. His eyes slit open. Outside, the night's still dark, but it isn't raining. The bathroom light is on, as he left it. His habits have changed to accommodate what Sam now is and he's not going to overthink it. If a little light is enough to prevent Sam waking terrified, thinking he's alone, then Dean will turn on a light. Three repetitions of that awful moment in the cabin in Washington were enough. If having Sam sleep, deep and even, and to have him wake unafraid and not remembering impossible things, means that Dean needs to keep within arm's reach, needs to let Sam curl around him like—well, it's not much of a price to pay. Especially if it means that Dean sleeps, too. Better than he did with Lisa, and more than he has in years.

He stretches his legs out, cautiously, and his bladder complains immediately at the movement. He goes to ease out of bed and Sam's hand tightens on his hip.

It's not like it's the first time, but a jolt travels through his stomach just the same. "I'll be right back," he whispers, and Sam sighs into his skin but his fingers release their grip on Dean's pelvis, so that's all right.

He shuffles into the bathroom, pees with his eyes shut. His mouth tastes like the unholy offspring of cheap beer and reindeer ass he'd expect. He's scrubbing the back of his tongue, then, leaning in the doorway and watching the long lump of Sam curl around the empty spot in their nest of blankets, when there's a fluttering on the edge of his hearing. Like bird wings, he thinks blearily, and then everything goes dark.

 

He opens his eyes to blue-white lightning, to ozone so thick in the air he can taste it, like the horrible sparkling coppery feel of a battery on the tongue, like a ghost's residue clogging the back of the throat with air gone metallic. He realizes he can't move in the same moment he realizes he's pinned up tight against a wall, joints frozen solid with a will not his own. When he manages to focus, he sees in he's in some empty factory, Sam slumped on the concrete floor across from him and still passed out from the journey, or maybe just still sleeping. Sleep would be a blessing, really, he thinks, and then someone's standing in front of him.

It's a woman. Tall and black and blank, wearing some kind of boring business suit. Pretty, actually, in an over-forty way—her lips and hair and eyes dark and exquisite—and then she grabs Dean tight by the throat and says, "You are the worst vessel I've ever seen."

"Raphael," Dean says. The vessel doesn't contradict.

"Do be quiet," she (he?) says, and Dean's vocal chords seize, obediently. The factory is barely lit, an almost-full moon spilling white light through vents and rare windows, but it's enough to see the vague cruelty in her expression. "I wouldn't be doing this if it weren't for your interference, you know."

His eyes are on Sam. "What are you talking about?" he says, and he really doesn't know.

"You ruined everything," the woman says, up close and hissing against his face, and he turns away from the heat of her breath, squeezes his eyes shut. "The Michael sword, that's what they called you. You were supposed to destroy him," she says, "you were supposed to destroy everything," and she's pressed up against his front, whispering into his ear and her fingers digging so tight into his biceps he's surprised the bones haven't broken.

Across from him, Sam's still out."Sorry," Dean manages. "Guess you'll have to destroy the world some other time."

The vessel's hands tighten, but then she lets go and steps back, expression evening out. "Soon enough," she says, and Dean's stomach turns over at the sudden calm certainty there, and then he hears wings again.

" _Bonsoir_ ," Balthazar says, hands in his pockets.

Raphael spins on her heel, an archangel sword suddenly filling her hand. "What are you doing here?"

"Could ask you the same question, Raffie," Balthazar retorts. He exaggerates a frown, pouts out his lower lip. "I'm hurt. You send that brick Virgil after me, but the Winchesters get the personal touch? Have I sunk so low in your priorities?"

"Where is he?" she says.

Balthazar grins. "Oh, Castiel's deep underground. Nowhere you'll be able to find him."

Dean drags his eyes away from the angels to see Sam shaking his head, blinking. Raphael's talking, saying, "Maybe a little blood will summon the rebel to me," and Dean's not sure whose blood she's talking about, but right at the moment he's more worried about how Sam has dragged a hand over his face, managed to focus, and looked up right at Balthazar. He thinks, as clearly as he can, _Cas, now would be a really great time_ , and he doesn't know if that's what does it but just as Raphael turns around, sword raised, feathers sound in Dean's ears and Castiel is standing in front of him, hand outstretched.

"Step away from him, Raphael," he says, voice deep as a mineshaft.

"You know," Balthazar says, rolling his eyes, "this whole 'keep out of Raphael's sight' plan would work much better if you could stick to it for more than five minutes at a time."

"I have the weapons." This time Castiel's voice echoes and Raphael takes a step back. It's getting brighter and Dean realizes there's light seeping out of Castiel, like there's almost too much for his vessel to contain, and Castiel says, "If you want to survive this conversation, you should leave. Now."

Raphael stares, for a second, and then is gone. Balthazar shakes his head.

"This is going to end badly, darling," he says, but Dean's eyes are on Sam. He's looking back and forth between Balthazar and Castiel and his jaw is clenched, posture tense and defensive when he stands, keeping his back tight against the graffitied wall. "Try not to get yourself killed this time, all right?"

Before the wing-beats of Balthazar's departure have faded, Sam has darted over to Dean's side. Castiel sighs, head dipping, but before Dean can say anything he turns around and puts a hand on either of their shoulders and they're standing in the motel in Kentucky, the sun barely risen and the room wrecked.

"What the hell, Cas?" Dean says.

Sam backs right off, hands fisted at his sides. Castiel stands with his back to the window, haloed now only by sunlight, but Dean remembers the expression on Raphael's face.

"Are you all right?" Castiel says, and Dean snaps back, "I'd be a lot better if I knew what the hell was going on," and he glances over to find Sam hovering by the doorway to the bathroom, looking at Cas like he's never seen him before.

He's thrown, for a moment, but has to smother the immediate need to shield Sam with Cas right there in front of him. "Come on," he says, taking a step forward. "I haven't seen you since—you've got to give me something, man. What's going on? You've got the rest of the angel weapons, right? What does that mean?"

Castiel stares at him. He looks tired, like he had last year when his grace was being slowly strangled by Heaven—shadows under his eyes, lips chapped, skin somehow fragile looking, the body that had been Jimmy Novak's neglected in Castiel's keeping. "I'll tell you," he says, and he doesn't sound frightening any more. "When I can."

"Tell us what?" Sam says.

It's tight, aggressive. He comes up to Dean's side, arms folded over his chest. Castiel's eyes flick to him, briefly, but all he says is, "You know what Raphael will do, if he wins. What will happen to all of us, to the Earth. I can't let that happen, Dean. At any cost."

Dean wants to haul Castiel in by the sleeve of that dumb trenchcoat, wants to tie down his wings somehow so he can't escape and just—make him listen, understand that all Dean wants is to help. He's opening his mouth to say something he's pretty sure is going to contain the word _please_ when Castiel gives him a half-pleading look and disappears. The room immediately seems darker, the sound of feathers whisper-soft and fading.

"God _damn_ it."

He wants to haul out his gun and shoot something. He drops his face into one hand instead, blows out a tight breath.

A touch lights on his shoulder. "Who was that?"

Dean stills.

"Dean?"

He turns, just enough that the hand on his shoulder falls away. When he looks up Sam's frowning, giving him that look that says _stop keeping things from me_.

"Sam, that was Cas." His eyebrows raise a little, he shakes his head and shrugs, and Dean doesn't know what else to say. "Cas, Sam. Castiel, angel of the Lord. Pulled me out of Hell, saved us more times than—"

He stumbles to a halt. The room's bright, now, the sun fully risen, and he can see every detail of Sam's face. Can see every signal broadcasting Sam's confusion. He's trying to come up with something, anything to say, the thought rising frantic in the back of his mind that this is wrong, this is one step too far, when Sam suddenly blinks, hard. The frown and narrowed eyes and annoyed mouth drain away, the bewilderment fading down into calm. Like a switch has been thrown, Dean thinks, and Sam shifts his weight so that he's not so much in Dean's space.

"Do you think Cas is winning the war?" Sam says.

Dean searches his face. "I don't know," he says, after a minute, and Sam's mouth tightens in acknowledgement.

There should be some sign that what just happened—happened. Instead, Sam shrugs and walks away, over to his bag. "We're not going to be able to find out anything else unless he wants to tell us, Dean. Unless... you think Crowley might know something?"

"Crowley?"

"I don't know, it's just—king of Hell, he probably wants to keep an eye on what's going on upstairs, you know?" Sam says, and pulls on a shirt.

Dean says, "Right," and gives up on trying not to stare.

He sits on the edge of the bed he and Sam shared in the night and listens to Sam brushing his teeth, to Sam shaving, to Sam talking about how they should try to figure out what both Heaven and Hell are up to. He emerges from the bathroom in clean jeans and a plaid shirt and he looks a little tired, maybe, but otherwise completely fine. He crams his stuff back into the bag, gathers their guns and knives up from tables and beds, and doesn't once stray too far into Dean's space, doesn't touch him lightly on the shoulder or back as he's taken to doing. It should feel like getting back to normal.

"Hey, there's a McDonald's in this town, right?" Dean says.

Sam looks up from checking his pistol ammo. "Uh, yeah."

"'I deserve a break today.' Bring me some McMuffins." Sam rolls his eyes and then Dean's on autopilot, it's easy. "Hey, I stitched you up and I let your lazy ass take first shower last night. I stink, I'm hungry, there ain't coffee in this crappy motel, you're on breakfast duty."

He tosses Sam the keys and they're caught with a grin, though it's exasperated. "Fine," Sam says. "But you should call Bobby, let him know what we're planning on doing. He might know something."

He watches Sam climb into the Impala, pull out of the parking lot. "Good idea, Sammy," he says to the empty room.

Despite the fear settling down into iron in his gut, he goes through the routine. Strip, shower, brush teeth, think about shaving and then, staring at himself in the mirror, think _screw it_. He knows exactly where the closest McDonalds is, knows how Sam drives and that he'll probably stop at a coffee place, too, so by the time he's in jeans and flannel and socks, sitting back on the edge of their bed and holding his phone in distracted hands, he knows he's got about ten minutes left.

It's eight in the morning here, so it's seven at Bobby's, and he sounds gruff indeed when he picks up the phone with a, "What do you want, Dean?"

"Good morning to you, too," he says. He opens his mouth again, but nothing comes out.

Bobby waits a few seconds. "What's the matter?" he says, and he doesn't sound irritated any more.

"It's Sam."

"Oh, hell. Course it is. What happened?"

He covers his eyes with his free hand, props his elbows on his knees. Tells Bobby exactly what happened, doesn't leave anything out. Not Cas' weird behavior, not Balthazar or Raphael, and, though he has to force himself to keep his voice even, what he's been doing for Sam, what he's let Sam— _but that's not fair_ , he thinks, listening to Bobby's heavy silence on the other end of the line. He hasn't let Sam do anything he didn't want, couldn't handle. It's not like he let Sam—

"This been going on the whole time?" Bobby eventually says, and he sounds perfectly calm.

Dean clears his throat. "Pretty much." Bobby lets out a sigh. "But it's not—that's the thing, Bobby, it's not all the time."

"You said—"

"Sometimes he's just—he's just Sam, you know, annoying little brother Sam. It's like, I don't know, there're buttons that get pressed, or something, and then he'll... change."

"You know what does it?"

"Some of them." He explains, as best he can, about those panicky midnight awakenings, in the dark. How Sam's hands on him were so tight the ache would go right down to bone, and how when the light came on Sam would look at him like he was a revelation.

"And you say a friggin' nightlight fixes it?"

"Seems like it." Dean looks out the window. Sam will be back soon. "You think the wall's coming down?"

"Boy, you know I thought yours and Death's little wall was a dumbass idea from the start," he says, tartly, and Dean rolls his eyes. "But Sam doesn't even know it's there, so far as we know, so it's not like he's trying to scratch it. And he doesn't talk about Hell, right?"

"No. Or about when he was soulless, either."

"Well, then." Bobby takes in a deep breath. "He's all right on hunts?"

Dean remembers last night—Sam picking him up after he crashed through the stairs, machete dark red in his other hand, bleeding free from the long gash on his arm and not caring. "Yeah, he's fine."

"Well. I don't know what's going on in that boy's head, but I don't think you need to worry about him remembering what he shouldn't. He ain't having breakdowns, he's watching your back. And, Dean, if he were remembering, it'd be—you know, torture. Blood and guts and whatnot, not..."

"Right," Dean says. He doesn't need any reminders of what Hell's brand of torture is.

There's a low growling on the edge of his hearing and he turns to see the Impala cruise back into the parking lot.

"Maybe this is just... Sam. Dealing, you know. However he can."

Bobby doesn't sound like he believes it, really, but Dean's watching as Sam climbs out of the car, white-and-red bags in one hand, coffee carrier in the other. He checks the door closed with his hip and catches Dean's eye in the window, jerks his head at the room's door. Automatically, he stands, goes to open it so nothing will get spilled.

"Actually, Bobby," he says, and Sam frowns at him for a second before he sees the phone. He lays the whole mess down on the table and turns, watching Dean expectantly. "We've got something to ask you about. Here, I'll hand you over to Sam."

He tosses his brother the phone. "Hey, Bobby," Sam says, and Dean digs through the bags, finds hashbrowns and McMuffin and sits down. He eats and listens to Sam explain what little they know about Castiel's civil war, what Sam's thinking they need to do, and he watches Sam's expression, the way he gestures with his free hand to illustrate his point, how he frowns a little as he listens to Bobby's responses.

When Sam finally claps the phone closed, having decided with Bobby that they'll head back up to South Dakota, get the stuff together to summon Crowley and demand some answers, Dean has finished his share of the food and is sipping coffee. "So, we need to pick up anything on the way there?" he says.

Sam shakes his head, fumbles in the bag for the fruit cup Dean didn't touch. "Bobby should have everything we need. How long you think it'll take to get back up there?"

"We can make it by midnight if we get a move on."

He watches Sam nod, forking pear and cherries into his mouth. He slides the other coffee cup across the table and Sam makes a brief noise of gratitude, picking it up for a long gulp. He brushes his hands off on his thighs when he's finished eating and stands, pulling his head to either side to stretch the long muscles of his neck. Dean doesn't take his eyes off him, and so when Sam looks over at the two beds—one still maid-perfect, the other a wreck—he sees the way he frowns, a little, and how it almost immediately smoothes out.

"Let's go," Sam says, looking down at him, and there really isn't any difference in what he says or how he says it, but he reaches a hand down to Dean. Dean takes it, lets Sam pull him to his feet. He doesn't think his expression changes when Sam slides his fingers up to his wrist, thumb stroking over the pulse, or when Sam pulls his hand up to drop the car keys into his palm. They're warm from sitting in his pocket and Dean closes his fingers over them convulsively. A smile twitches in the corner of Sam's mouth and Dean thinks, for a second, that he'll lean in, close that last gap, but then Sam lets go.

"We should stop at that place you like in Kansas City for lunch," Sam says, shouldering two of the bags. "I'm in the mood for barbeque."

"Sounds good," Dean says. He follows Sam out, watches as he locks the door behind them and walks down the sidewalk to the motel office to check out. He looks down at the warm keys in his hand and the metal is digging into his palm, but he's thinking about how Sam looks at him. How he can't, always, tell the difference between one Sam and the other, and how he doesn't know anymore which one is his. Maybe both.

"Dude, come on," he hears, and Sam's standing in front of him, expectant. "You want to put the bags in the car, or you want to stand there looking pretty?"

He musters up a grin. "Come on, Sammy, you know the answer to that." Sam rolls his eyes and snatches the keys out of his hand, opens the trunk up himself. They throw in the bags and move around to their respective sides of the car and Sam tosses him the keys over the roof. When they pull out of the lot and Dean angles the car toward I-69, Sam's slouched in his corner and his arm's stretched out over the back of the seat, fingers just barely brushing the collar of Dean's shirt, and it's okay. It really shouldn't be, but it is.

 

 

He watches more carefully, then. At Bobby's they're distracted from summoning Crowley by the hints Bobby has uncovered about that mysterious Mother the alpha vampire had talked about. They talk in circles for hours about the increasing emergence of smarter, stronger monsters, about Castiel and Raphael, about the ramifications of angel-on-angel violence, about what the surfacing of the Mother of All could mean, and Sam is—Sam. He hands Dean a fresh beer and their fingers don't touch; when they finally call it quits and go to sleep, Dean beds down on the floor and Sam takes the couch, and they're close, but not like they have been. Bobby leaves them in the living room and keeps the lights on in the kitchen, without a word to either of them, and Sam doesn't wake up in the middle of the night.

They caravan to Sandusky, Ohio, following Bobby's beater down I-80. In the car alone, they listen to some old Creedence tapes and Dean keeps glancing over at Sam. As an experiment, he keeps the conversation light, avoids any mention of Castiel's war, and somewhere around Iowa City he catches a subtle relaxation out of the corner of his eye. By midnight, when they arrive at the motel Bobby leads them to, they aren't talking at all, but when he goes to unlock their room Sam's got a big hand spread out over the small of his back.

"Everything okay?" Bobby says, behind them, and Dean about swallows his tongue.

"Yeah, we're good," Sam says. Dean glances back to find Bobby frowning, face half-hidden in the shadow of his cap. He shrugs and, after a moment, Bobby nods. Sam doesn’t seem to notice the pause. "When's our appointment at the jail?"

"Eight. I'll meet you there."

Bobby disappears into the room next door and Sam nudges Dean forward into the dark space in front of them. Two beds, of course, and Dean wonders why they bother. Sam loads their bags onto the mattress closest to the door and stretches, long and tall, his fingertips brushing the ceiling.

"You want to eat something?" he says, glancing back at Dean.

He looks expectant. "I'm good," Dean says. His mouth's a little dry and he clears his throat.

"Bed?" Sam says. His gaze is direct, face and eyes clear.

For a second, Dean doesn't recognize the expression. Then, he does.

"Yeah," he says, blowing out a shaky breath. "I'm beat."

Dean doesn't know whether the spasm in his stomach is panic or something else. Whatever's on his face must not show it, though, because Sam sighs. "You know, it wouldn't kill you to have me drive. You could sleep in the car sometimes."

"Not with you at the wheel," Dean says, and it makes Sam roll his eyes but grin, too.

They get ready for bed just as they always do, and Dean's watching Sam but he can't—he can't tell, the lines are too blurred for him now. He strips down to his t-shirt and boxer briefs while Sam shaves, brushes his teeth while Sam hangs up their suits for the morning. He leaves the bathroom light on and pads over to the bedside table, makes sure his gun is loaded and ready, and when he straightens Sam closes in behind him, slides those big hands onto his hips and presses a kiss just behind his ear.

His grip goes loose on the gun and he puts his free hand over one of Sam's. Their fingers tangle together and what's coiling in his gut is—"I really do need to sleep," he says, and he can't be blamed if his voice is barely audible.

"I know, I know." It comes out as a sigh against the back of his neck, his ear. The hands tighten a little, but slip off. He doesn't turn around when he pulls the blankets down, when he slides into the bed. Sam climbs in behind him and flicks off the lamp, and Dean closes his eyes when a long arm pulls him in, Sam's chest broad and warm against his back and a hand splayed over his ribs. One of Sam's legs nudges up behind his, knee tucked into the hollow of his. Nothing else happens—Sam's just breathing behind him, deep and even—but Dean's pulse is so loud it feels like Bobby should be able to hear it, next door. Every time he takes a breath he's aware of the weight of Sam's hand, rising with the swell of his ribs. Familiar, though it shouldn't be, and it doesn't take him as long as he would've thought to fall asleep.

It's 5:57, according to the red-lit clock on the bedside table, when he wakes. He blinks, overly warm, doesn't know what's happening for a second. He only realizes that his face is pillowed on Sam's chest when it moves, in a long, deep breath. They've tangled together in the night, somehow, so that Sam's arm curls over his back, his thrown over Sam's stomach, his leg hitched up tight against Sam's and a morning erection pressed up to the sharp angle of Sam's hip.

It's not like it's the first time this has happened when they've shared, but it's the first time it has happened like this. He tries to keep his breathing even and shuffles back, but of course Sam's arm tightens around him. For a few seconds, he considers closing his eyes. Wonders what would happen when Sam woke up. An alarm goes off, faintly, on the other side of the wall, and he thinks, _Bobby_. Makes it easy to roll out of Sam's grip, off the other side of the mattress. There's a sleepy complaint from the bed, but Dean doesn't say anything. He watches while Sam turns over, into the warm spot he left, and feels for a moment dizzy. He's in the shower in the next thirty seconds and he turns the water on as hot as he can stand it, lets the stream pound into the knots at the base of his neck and just—takes care of it, doesn’t think.

 

It’s just his luck that, having thrown himself into the frying pan, he’s then set directly into the fire. The cannery is dark and empty, no hint of any monster or ghost, and yet it seems trivial next to the fact that his grandfather is standing in front of him, with Gwen a potent threat at his shoulder, and they’re both looking at Sam. He fights the urge to shove Sam down behind him.

“Hey there, Sam,” Samuel says, and Dean’s finger tightens on the trigger without his consent. “Gotten any innocent folks killed recently?”

He doesn’t have to look over to know what’s on Sam’s face. “What are you talking about?” Sam says, and Gwen's obviously gauging him, tracking how much time she'd have if he pulled a gun. "Who are—"

“Shut up, all of you,” Dean says. Bobby and Rufus are hovering over to the side. He'd told Bobby everything, but Rufus doesn't know, clearly wants to focus on the case. He looks into Samuel’s face and the memory of being left to the ghouls is thick in his throat. He wants nothing more than to empty a clip into the bastard’s chest—but he glances back at Sam and knows he can’t. “Bobby, keep an eye on the kin-folk. Make sure Samuel doesn’t sell anyone to a demon this time, all right?”

To his credit, a flicker of shame passes over Samuel’s face. Gwen frowns, looking between the two of them. Dean wonders if it’s possible she didn’t know, but it’s not a chance he can take. “Sam, come on, come with me.”

Sam’s rock solid, resists Dean’s hand on his elbow. “What’s going on?” he says, and when Dean glances back Samuel looks speculative. “Dean, why—“

“Come with me, Sam,” Dean repeats, and there must be something in his voice because Sam flashes a wide-eyed look at him and then firms his mouth.

They aren’t even clear of the doors when Dean hears Bobby start with, “You’ve got a hell of a lot of nerve—“ but he’s striding at high speed down the corridor, Sam hot on his heels, so they can’t catch the end of it. They end up behind a wall of plastic-wrapped palettes, far enough away that they can't hear what could be going on in the break room. Dean finally stops when Sam seizes his bicep, drags him to a halt. He still wants to go back, wants to kill Samuel for what he'd done, but when he turns around Sam is staring at him like he's the monster and, with great effort, he holsters his gun.

"Dean, what is going on? Who were they?" Sam says.

He hasn't thought of a lie. "That was—Mom's dad. Samuel Campbell." Sam's eyes widen and his mouth goes slack. He looks back down the long corridor of boxes. Dean takes another chance. "And the girl, that was our—what, second or third cousin, something like that. Gwen."

"I thought Mom's family was all dead," Sam says, after a few seconds of silence.

"Yeah, so did I." He scrubs his fingers over his mouth. "They—we ran into each other when I was living with Lisa. That's how I got back into the business."

"What happened?" Sam says, and Dean starts to explain about the djinn, but Sam cuts him off. "No, not—I mean, you can tell me about that later. What happened to make you want to kill him? He's our grandfather, Dean."

He sounds accusing. Dean looks up at him, and opens his mouth despite having no idea what to say, and then Sam's expression starts to slip. He'd been acting like—well, what Dean had been thinking of as normal-Sam, the little brother who had his back, and he'd been too curious and too on-point, as always. While Dean watches, his frown evens out and he looks up, over Dean's head, back down toward the break room and the memories Dean knows are lurking there, represented perfectly in a half-capable cousin and a vicious grandfather. He tilts his head a little, looks thoughtful, and then, terrifyingly, blank. About five dozen things stream through Dean's head all at once, and topmost among them is the thought that Sam cannot fall now. Not like this.

Sam takes a step past him, clearly about to go back to that room and find answers Dean can't let him have. "Sam," Dean says, and reaches out, and slides his fingers around Sam's wrist.

For a second he's not sure it'll work. Sam stops, but the look he turns on Dean is confused, and maybe irritated. Dean takes half a step closer, gets inside Sam's space, and ducks his head a little when he tightens his grip on Sam's arm, when his other hand fists in the soft flannel of Sam's shirt. His heart is hammering in his ears again and he stares at a random fixed spot on Sam's chest, watches the rise and fall as Sam takes a long breath.

Sam's hand comes up to cover Dean's, over his sternum. "Hey," Sam says, quiet. Dean realizes he's practically vibrating only when Sam's other hand breaks free of his hold, comes around to the back of his neck. "Are you okay? You're freaking me out."

He huffs out a laugh. "I'm super," he says, caught between Sam's arms. He doesn't know what to do with his free hand and it dangles at his side, nails digging uselessly into his palm.

Sam tilts his head back and he lets him, of course, because this is what he'd wanted to happen. He'd wanted this Sam, who would be calm and effective, who could hunt but who could be distracted, too. Sam's frowning, just a little, searching Dean's face, and he has no idea what his expression's like and no hope of controlling it, either. His fingers tighten in Sam's shirt and his other hand goes to Sam's elbow, catches in the fabric of the jacket, and he doesn't pull Sam away but just holds on. It's dark, but not so dark he can't see the intent in the curve of Sam's mouth, the way his eyes drop, and he despairs for a moment that Sam's poker face is so very bad, and then Sam's mouth is on his.

There should be a thunderclap. Shattering glass, cannon fire, a demon's laughter, an angel crying out infamy. Sam's fingers slide up into the short hair at the back of his skull and his head is tilted a little for a better angle. He thinks, incongruously, that this is the first time he’s ever kissed someone taller than him, and then Sam presses a little harder, the wet inside of his lip catching over the chapped edge of Dean's mouth, and when he parts his lips to take in a sharp breath Sam makes a brief, deep noise.

He pulls back, then. Can't help it. He's breathing hard, shaky.

Sam scrapes blunt nails through his hair, puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Seriously, man, are you all right?”

He opens his eyes, doesn’t know when he closed them. Sam looks worried. His hand is seeping warmth through the layers of Dean’s jacket, shirt, t-shirt, his thumb resting just over Dean’s rabbiting pulse. “I’m fine,” he says, and could curse himself when it comes out faint. He straightens up, releases his death-grip on Sam’s shirt. Sam doesn’t look convinced. “Really. We’ve got to get back to the hunt. Find out what’s making these people kill—people.”

“Right,” Sam says. He slides his hand down over Dean's shoulder, down his arm, like he’s done half-a-dozen times now. This time, it makes Dean shiver. They’re standing so close that of course Sam notices, and it makes one corner of his mouth turn up. “Later,” he murmurs, in a tone of such obvious promise Dean closes his eyes, but then Sam steps back, unholstering his gun, and Dean can breathe again.

 Dean digs out his phone. "Hang on," he says.

"You two okay?" Bobby says, as soon as he answers.

Dean flicks his eyes away from Sam. "We're good. What's the word?"

Sam waits at his back, patient and watchful, as he listens to Bobby relay Samuel's information. He wonders if Samuel's still working for Crowley, if that's how he knows about Eve. The urge for revenge pulses up his throat again and he wonders if he could explain grand-patricide away without doing any damage to the wall.

"So we still don't know what's screwing with people," Dean says, finally.

Bobby sighs. "No. But we know it's got to be something in here."

"All right, well, we'll keep an eye out. But, Bobby—I'm not going anywhere near Samuel. Neither is Sam."

There's a pause on Bobby's end. When Dean glances up, Sam's watching him. "We've got to work together on this, Dean."

"Can't do it. You know why."

There's a muted noise, and then Dean hears some muffled argument, like Bobby's holding his palm over the phone's mic. After a few seconds Bobby comes back, saying, "Well, fine. Jackass. Dean, you willing to accept Gwen?"

Sam has started to frown, just a little. Dean doesn't know how much leeway he has left. "Fine, we'll take her. Hey, it's a generational split. Team Old and Team Pretty."

Sam rolls his eyes. Bobby's voice, in his ear, is bone-dry. "How about that. Where are you?"

Once they hang up Dean shoves the phone back into his jacket. They got far enough away in his panicked flight that it's going to take Gwen a few minutes to find them. He makes sure his gun is in easy reach, the knife in his waistband loose, and settles in to wait.

"You want to tell me what happened with Samuel?" Sam says, after a few seconds.

He sounds calm. When Dean looks over, he's watching the dark corridor of boxes, doesn't look like he's prodding for answers he shouldn't have. They're not standing too close—Sam's not touching him or looking at him at all—and so he can't tell. He considers how not to lie.

"A lot happened," he says. True. "It ended with him selling me out, leaving me for dead." Also true, and what Sam doesn't know is omitted can't hurt him.

"How could he do something like that?" Sam says, and he sounds a little more like the little brother who'd tried to ask Dean for all the answers the universe could offer.

Dean hadn't had them then, either. "Said we were strangers, that he didn't owe me anything." He shrugs, folding his arms over his chest. The sad thing is, he can understand why Samuel had done it. How the man would have done anything to see his daughter again. He looks over at Sam, at his stupid hair and his firm, disappointed mouth, his grip easy on his gun and his shoulders unbowed, and he knows he could do the same thing. Even so.

There's a sound of footsteps, abruptly stopping. "Dean?" he hears, and he sighs.

"Over here," he says, and Gwen comes around the corner with her flashlight pointed low, her gun clutched tight in her right hand.

"Hey," she says, awkward. She glances between the two of them, and Dean reconsiders letting Bobby send her out here.

"Listen, what's done is done," he says. Her eyes fix on him, dark and narrowed. "No sense talking about it. Let's just get out of here with minimal bloodshed, okay?"

Her head tilts and, later, he'll remember what follows as though in slow motion. She says, "I think I know what Samuel means, when he calls you strangers," and Dean wants to bark something at her but then her gun is coming up to bear on his chest and he isn't going to have a chance to dodge—and then her head snaps back, there's a massive crack, and she slumps to the concrete floor.

Sam lowers his gun, face a little shocky. "What the hell is with this family," he says, and Dean looks from him to the rapidly cooling corpse of their cousin in time to see something long, dark, and slimy slide from her ear and disappear into the shadows.

"What the—"

There isn't time, after, to overthink anything. Brought by the gunshot, the others arrive in a rush and Dean throws himself in front of Sam but Rufus is already holding Samuel back, not letting him raise his weapon. The explanation of the bizarre worm tumbles out of Dean's mouth, Bobby swipes at Gwen's ear and finds black ooze, and they come to the swift, obvious conclusion. They split up, again, leave Gwen's body in its dark and spreading puddle on the floor. Even sneaking through the abandoned lower corridors, Dean doesn't let Sam more than five feet out of his reach. It makes it easy, really, when Samuel pulls his pistol on Sam, to be one step behind him and to put a bullet in the back of the old man's head.

It's irritating being tied up. More so when Bobby does it to him. Samuel's body is laid out on the table, face up so they can't see the hole where the back of his skull should be. Dean leans up against one of the chairs, shifts his bound wrists so he won't crush his fingers, and doesn't feel a single ounce of regret. Probably a bad sign.

"It's weird."

He looks up at Sam. "What is?"

Sam shrugs, with a little wavering grin. "Just—this is the second time he's died. I half expect him to just get up again. I mean, he is a member of this family. We don't exactly stay down, you know?"

Dean's fingers flex, behind his back. Sam isn't really looking at him and so he can't tell what mode he should be operating under. "He's not a member of this family," he says. Sam frowns, looks up. It's—his little brother, that's all, and he sighs. "He's not. He's just—blood. We don't owe him anything, because he never earned it."

Sam stares at him. He saved from saying anything else by the lights coming on, and when they look out through the doors Bobby and Rufus are returning, guns and saws in hand, and Dean stands up straight, flexes his shoulders. Sam comes to stand at his side and Dean doesn't lean against him, but feels the support anyway.

"All right, then," Rufus says. "Let's play Operation."

 

In the car, later, Sam is quiet. Dean tries to keep his grip on the wheel easy and calm, but it's hard. He can still feel the hum of the electric cable in his hands, can still hear how Rufus yelled every time he'd pressed the wires into his neck. Watching the worm slide out of him and curl up, dead, had been little satisfaction when Rufus had been passed out cold, heart barely beating.

"You think he'll be all right?" he says. It's more to get Sam to say something than any real hope for reassurance.

It takes a while. "Bobby said he actually has insurance. In his own name, I mean." He glances over. Sam's staring out the window. "They'll replace the pacemaker."

"Right," Dean says. They slow to a halt at a stoplight, about a block from their motel, and he chances it. "You doing okay?"

"Yeah, I'm just... thinking," Sam says. "Samuel seemed like he knew me, somehow. But that doesn't make any sense."

Dean keeps his eyes on the red light in front of him, taps his thumb on the wheel. Tries not to give anything away, but he doesn't know what to say.

"What happened between you two? I mean, what really happened, not just—" Sam shakes his head and Dean blinks, sees that the light's green. "It just feels like you're hiding something from me, man."

They pull into the motel lot in silence. Sam still isn't looking at him and Dean recognizes this thick quiet. Remembers a stone cabin, a cold floor, oppressive darkness, Sam taking a sledgehammer to the wall without even meaning to. Sam opens up the passenger door before Dean even takes the keys out of the ignition. By the time Dean's out of the car he's in the room, in the dark.

Dean unloads the car by himself. When he pushes open the room's thin door, Sam is sitting on the edge of one of the beds, tension strung along his shoulders, hands a tight knot between his knees.

"Hey, we need to get set up, come on," Dean says, and he knows it's gravel-rough but he doesn't care.

Sam blows out a sigh, but stands. He takes one of the bags from Dean's outstretched hand, his brow furrowed and eyes fixed on the ground, and Dean lets the rest of the bags slide down to the floor.

"I'm gonna—I've got to shower," he says, and Sam nods. Dean swallows, throat clicking and dry, and when he goes into the bathroom he takes his jacket in with him and closes the door, listens to the latch catch.

His shower is brutally fast—hot as he can take it, just enough soap to get the blood out from under his fingernails, to get the smell of burning flesh off his skin. He steps out and rubs dry with the thin motel towel, buries his face in the mossy green cloth and breathes deep. He looks at himself in the spotty mirror and finds his face only half-familiar—mouth red, skin white, no shadows under his eyes. They look too bright, too green under the fluorescent light and he closes them. He wraps the towel around his hips and digs in his jacket. There's a text from Bobby— _Rufus under observation but doc says he is fine—_ and his flask, still two-thirds full of whiskey. He turns his phone off and drains the flask, gulping until there's not a drop of alcohol left.

When he opens the door again, the room is barely lit. Sam has only turned on one of the little lamps, the one next to the door, and so as he stands at the window he's a dark blue shadow. Dean can't see his face.

"Rufus is gonna be fine. Bobby texted."

Sam doesn't respond. Dean goes to fidget with the towel around his hips but forces his hands still. He pads out over the surprisingly thick carpet and the air in the room is cool where there's still water clinging to his skin. Out of the corner of his eye he catches the signs that Sam isn't totally out of it—there's salt at the doorway, on the windowsill, the gleam of a shotgun leaned up against the bed—but there's no expression on his brother's face, no hint that he's noticed Dean is back, is standing right next to him. He thinks about the sounds Sam makes in the dark.

He licks his lips, tastes the peat and honey of Bobby's favorite whiskey. "Sammy?" he says, and slides a hand under the edge of Sam's jacket, under the flannel, until his fingers curl into the body-warm cotton of his t-shirt.

A suppressed jerk makes the muscle under his hand twitch. While he watches, Sam blinks, lips parting, and he looks down at Dean with a frown.

Dean's hand clenches in Sam's shirt. He looks up into Sam's face and counts seconds, one and then two and then three, and when he gets to four it's like something unlocks, somewhere in Sam's head, and everything softens. Sam turns toward him and warm hands slide onto his waist, just above the line of the towel. When he's pulled half a step closer he doesn't resist. He's made his decision.

"I guess this is later," Sam says, with a little smile.

Dean nods, once, and closes his eyes when Sam leans in. This time when their lips meet he doesn't shake with the shock, but tilts up his face, opens his mouth, and breathes everything in.

He doesn't know what he expected, really, but this isn't it. Sam kisses like he doesn't have anywhere pressing to be, like he'd be content to do just this all night. His hands move on Dean's skin without a hint of hesitation, spreading out wide between his shoulderblades, wrapping over the back of his neck and holding him just where he's wanted. He keeps his eyes closed and so it's a surprise when Sam turns them around, presses him back into the wall next to the window. His hands fly up to grip into Sam's jacket and Sam chuckles, pulls away from his mouth to press damp lips along his cheekbone, at the hinge of his jaw, on the tendon straining at the side of his neck.

"Missed this," Sam murmurs, into the hollow of his throat, but when Dean opens his eyes Sam has come back up and is looking at him with that little crooked smile. His hair's a mess, flopping over his forehead and curling up ridiculously at his collar, and Dean pushes one hand into the mass, tucks it behind his ear. It's silk-soft under the pads of his fingers, as he's always known it must be, and he licks his lips. Sam's eyes darken, focus down on his mouth, and so he doesn't expect it when they're spun, again, and Sam's the one with his shoulders up against the wall.

Dean's brain kicks in, belatedly, asking _missed what, what does that mean_ , but then Sam drags him close, hip to hip so he's up on his toes, and his mouth is forced open under the weight of Sam's tongue and there's not much room left for thinking. The towel drops, finally, and the shock of cool air on his skin is minimal compared to how Sam's hands drop, digging in just under the curve of his ass and hauling him tight against Sam's body.

"Jesus." Dean says it in a gasp, when Sam finally lets go of his mouth, and Sam grins against his cheek. His thumbs stroke a wide arc over the damp skin of his hips and Dean drops his forehead into Sam's shoulder, hides his face.

Sam's still completely clothed and Dean feels exposed in more ways than one. The bulge of Sam's erection is obvious, pressed against his bare hip, and he closes his eyes again when Sam hauls him in a little tighter. "What do you want?" Sam says, deep and smiling, and his knee slides between Dean's thighs.

The denim's rough on his skin and he swallows hard, presses his face into dark blue canvas, slings an arm around Sam's neck. "Whatever you want," he says, and his voice doesn't crack.

"God," Sam says, up against the side of his neck, and Dean thinks _no, not here_ , and then the world tilts a little because Sam bends his knees, slides his hands under Dean's thighs and _lifts_.

His arm clutches tighter around Sam's neck, thighs biting into his hips. "Christ, Sammy," he says, breathless, and Sam bites at the line of his throat, sucks a kiss under his chin, walks them the four steps to the bed with no apparent effort. They fall back a little less gracefully, but then Dean's on his back on the mattress and Sam's pressed up between his spread thighs, heavy and a lot bigger than he usually seems, and Dean digs his fingers into the meat of his shoulders, opens up to another kiss, and it's not long before Sam mutters, "Fuck, hang on," into his mouth and pulls back.

The yellowish light by the door highlights Sam's hair with gold and red as he strips off his jacket, gleams over the muscles of his tan shoulders when he shucks both shirts at once. Dean lies frozen on the bed, breathing hard, while Sam heels off his boots, rips his belt open and lets his jeans fall to the floor. He's wearing dark blue briefs, which Dean hadn't even realized he owned, and they're tented and obvious even in the shadow cast by Sam's own body. He's sliding his fingers under the elastic waistband when he looks up again and Dean doesn't know what's on his face, but it's enough to make Sam groan and lean forward again, to get one knee on the mattress and lick into Dean's mouth. Sam grabs him around the ribs and pushes and Dean gets the idea, digs his heels into the bed and helps Sam shove him further up it, toward the pillows. Sam crawls along with him, knees Dean's legs further apart and settles between them with a pleased hum that vibrates under Dean's jaw. One of his hands slides under Dean's shoulders, tilts him up a little for another kiss, and the other skims down his stomach, fingertips sliding a hot line over his navel, and when it closes over his half-hard dick Dean can't help the noise he makes, though it's muffled by Sam's mouth.

Sam grins anyway and jerks him, rough, slides his mouth back onto Dean's throat and bites soft over Dean's bobbing Adam's apple. "Sam," Dean says, and it's a whisper, but he can't help it.

"I know," Sam says, and it's probably supposed to be soothing, but his pelvis is hitching under Dean's, so that the cotton-covered bulge of his dick is pressed up against the crease between Dean's thigh and ass, Dean's leg catching over the narrow line of Sam's hip.

He's incapable of suppressing the shudder, or how his breath gets trapped in his chest. He has no idea where Sam is getting this from and he doesn't want to know, but he—he can't—

"Hey," he hears, and refocuses to see Sam's face inches from his, a little frown marring his brow. His hand is still big and warm on Dean's dick and his hips jerk, responding without his permission, but he's shaking, too, can't seem to stop. "You all right?"

He doesn't trust his voice. Nods. Sam's searching his face and he closes his eyes. "Been a while," he whispers, finally, and Sam's hand squeezes.

"I know," Sam says again, and this time it really is soothing, a kiss landing on his temple, on the shell of his ear. Dean keeps his eyes closed, slides his shaky hands onto Sam's back and digs his nails in. "Hey, it's okay."

A hand skims down the outside of Dean's thigh, prickling along the sparse hair. Their hips push together, tight enough to make Dean gasp. Sam pets down his chest, over his heaving ribs, and then he pulls back, shifts a little down the bed. His mouth leaves a damp trail, collarbone to nipple, center of sternum to just above the navel, and then he shoulders a space for himself between Dean's thighs, wraps an arm under Dean's leg and closes his hand over the top of his hip, and when a wet, sucking kiss is pressed to the base of Dean's dick he'd have arched clean off the bed if Sam's weight weren't holding him down.

He loses some time. Sam's patient, slow. His hair tickles against the inside of Dean's thigh when Sam pulls his knee fully over his shoulder, brushing whispery-soft against his balls when Sam tilts his head to drag the flat of his tongue up the shaft. It's almost enough like what Dean's used to that he could mistake it for a girl, but for the fact that the mouth is bigger, the hands holding him down stronger. He opens his eyes after a while, dizzy, and leans up on one elbow. The light plays over the long muscles of Sam's back as he shifts and works, leaves his face half in shadow. It's the most surreal thing Dean has ever seen. Sam glances up, finds him watching, and he grins, lips red and wet and stretched wide, and keeps his eyes on Dean's when he slides back down over his dick until he hits bottom. Dean can see his throat bob at the same time he feels the swallow and he reaches out, traces his thumb over the stretched corner of Sam's mouth, and Sam squeezes his eyes shut tight.

The bottom of Dean's stomach drops out when Sam pulls off, but he's not given time to feel disappointed. Sam surges up and covers him with miles of overheated skin. "Sorry, I just—" Sam says, and his voice is scratched-up, hoarse from _Dean's cock in his mouth_ , and then Sam's grabbing his hips and flipping them over so Dean's on top. He shoves at the waistband of his briefs, just enough that his erection is freed, and Dean can't help glancing down. Blood-dark and big, wet at the tip, but Sam grabs his neck, pulls him into a rough kiss. The flavor's odd, off, and it flips that something in his stomach again, but then Sam's other hand is hard on his hip, grinding him down, and they're slick together from Sam's saliva and he thrusts, can't help it, and then both of Sam's hands are on his ass and they're moving, fast and close. His knees slip to the mattress, dig in either side of Sam's thighs, and the leverage is better but it makes Sam's hands shift. He pulls back from Sam's mouth on a gasp, buries his face in the curve of his neck, and Sam's fingertips slide into his crack, slipping down his sweat-damp tailbone. His hips twitch away on instinct but it only drives him harder into Sam, and Sam's muttering against his temple, saying, "Come on, that's it, come on," and he screws his eyes shut tight and digs his fingers into Sam's shoulders and comes and comes, a sound dragged out between his teeth that he'd be embarrassed by if he were with anyone else.

He keeps his eyes closed, after. Sam's weight leaves the bed and footsteps pad over the floor. The sink runs for a while and, when the mattress dips again, a warm damp cloth runs over his stomach, glances over his sensitive dick, wipes at the mess that had run down his thighs when Sam thrust up between them, at the end, in a shockingly vivid mimicry of sex. When he's clean and tingling Sam runs slightly wet fingertips up his chest, settles in against his side with a sigh. The fingers settle on his jaw and he lets his face be turned, lets Sam cover his mouth again, slow and wet and sloppy with tiredness. A long arm slings over his chest and Sam settles into the pillow beside him, breath coming slow against his shoulder.

When he's sure Sam's asleep he slits his eyes open. He'd turned off the light, when he came back from the bathroom, and Dean slips out from under his heavy arm. He brushes his teeth, looking into the mirror. The skin of his throat and shoulders are faintly red with stubble-burn. He spits, rinses. Gathers his discarded clothes and dumps them on the unoccupied bed, digs in his duffel until he finds a clean pair of boxer briefs to step into. He turns his phone back on to find another text from Bobby. _Rufus still out. Will stay at hosp. w/him until morning. You and Sam stay safe._

He goes to the lamp on the wall by the door, flicks it on again. He prefers its light to the white harshness in the bathroom. When he climbs back onto the bed Sam stirs, blinks at him. "Where'd you go?" he says, still mostly asleep.

"Nowhere," Dean says, and rolls into the space Sam makes for him, tucked against a warm, broad chest. "I'm not going anywhere."

 

 

He gets better and better at balancing, over the following months. It gets to the point that, as soon as that lost, blank look starts to slide over Sam's face, he knows exactly what to do to get the Sam he needs back. Sometimes that's the too-curious little brother he grew up with who rolls his eyes at Dean and remembers everything he should; sometimes it's the almost-identical stranger, who doesn't seem to recognize angels but who does know the exact shape of Dean's mouth.

It's easier to live with than Dean thought it would be. He feels guilty, sometimes, when he has to flick those switches that turn Sam from one to the other, but it's the only way he can think to keep him safe. It's not like he can tell Bobby what he's doing. Castiel might know, but he's already made it quite clear that Sam is beyond his help and so—Dean takes Sam's protection into his own hands, as he's always done.

When they're standing in a brightly lit alley, Eleanor bled dry and dead behind them, Castiel slipping out far beyond his grasp is all he's focused on. He's had Sam so safely tucked under his wing that he'd almost forgotten—what Castiel can't fix, he can surely break. He turns around, heart lodged somewhere in his throat, and can't even breathe a warning. The way Sam's eyes go from startled to frightened to pure-blank vacancy in the moment that Castiel touches his forehead will stick with him until, and probably long past, the moment he dies. Right this second, though, all he can do is lunge forward, but he's too slow to catch Sam before he crashes to his knees. By the time Dean has his face cradled in his hands and is shouting his name, Sam's gone.

It's Bobby who forces him to get up. Between them they lug Sam's huge heavy body into the back of the car, and after a journey he barely remembers, down to the panic room and onto the cot that Dean has started thinking of as exclusively Sam's.

It's cool down here, at least, and he sits on the edge of the cot, the heat from Sam's thigh bleeding into his hip, while Bobby covers the walls in sigils to hide them from Crowley and Castiel alike. He folds his hands in a white-knuckled knot under his chin, knee bobbing restlessly, and he can't take his eyes off Sam's still, sleeping face. Bobby clicks the radio on to something soft, soothing, but he barely hears it. When, hours later, Sam rears off the cot in a pained arch Dean is there, hands on his shoulders, saying his name, but Sam just subsides, placid again, face turned to one side. By the time Bobby has gotten the information on Castiel's location from Balthazar, Sam hasn't moved again.

"Time to go, Dean," Bobby says, and squeezes his shoulder.

"Just a minute," he says, and in his peripheral vision Bobby nods. He waits until he hears the door at the top of the stairs open before he leans forward, presses his forehead to Sam's temple.

He just breathes there, for a minute. "You've got to wake up," he mutters. He can feel Sam's heart beating just under his skin, slow and even. "Please, Sammy."

He puts one hand over Sam's chest, but there's no response. "Well, if you ever get your lazy ass up, this is where we'll be," he says, and puts the messy note he'd written on the pillow. "We'll see you there, okay?"

He leaves Sam's gun on top of the paper, so it won't be missed. From up above him, he hears Bobby call, "We've got to go, kid," and he closes his eyes. "Okay," he says, redundantly, and leans forward to press a kiss to the corner of Sam's lax mouth. "Bye, Sam."

 

 

That Castiel leaves them alive is a shock. That Sam is upright to be left alive is a bigger one. Even after he collapses, blood streaming down over his mouth and out of his lacerated hand, Dean doesn't quite give up hope. They have to haul him up out of the blood-spattered lab and back to his cot and Dean stitches up the broken skin, holds Sam's hand between his and feels the life still running through him.

He works on the car. Can't think about Castiel, not any more than he has to. Bobby researches, goes out for beer and crappy food. Dean goes down to the panic room and watches Sam sleep, and he wonders which version of his brother will eventually resurface. Wonders what will be left.

He's standing in front of the fridge, perusing the meager beer selection, when there's a soft footstep behind him. Not Bobby.

"Hey, Dean," he hears, and turns around to see—Sam.

"Oh," he says. "You're—walking and talking."

A smile twitches across Sam's mouth. "Yeah," he says, and looks down for a second. "Put on my own socks, the whole nine."

He looks up again and he doesn't look frightened or blank or in pain. He's wearing an old shirt, one Dean hasn't seen in years, soft and a little too big, even on Sam. It makes him look younger than he is. He settles against Bobby's solid table, easing one hip down like he aches, but his eyes on Dean are easy, calm.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," Sam says, raising his eyebrows like _I know, I can't believe it either_. "I mean, my head hurts a little, but—basically, yeah."

"Good," Dean says, idiotically, and Sam gives him another little smile.

Sam asks about Castiel, of course, and Dean can't quite tell the story with Sam staring at him like that, so they go out to the wreck of the car. He talks with his head buried under the hood, Sam sitting on the cooler like he used to when they were younger, and it's a little easier.

"Holy crap," Sam says, when he's finished.

"Yeah, literally." Sam rolls his eyes and Dean grins, without much humor. "So that's what you've woken up for. Hope it was worth it."

He takes a long swallow of beer and Sam snorts. He moves around to sit on the still-intact trunk and Sam follows, sliding up onto the car like he still aches.

"What are we going to do?" Sam says, after a while.

When Dean looks over, his eyes are fixed on the pile of car parts Bobby has assembled for the Impala. Dean shrugs. "Get through it, I guess," he says, and sets his feet on the ground again. He leaves his bottle on the trunk and stretches, a little, until his back pops. He's about to turn, offer to make sandwiches or coffee, when long fingers slide around his wrist and he freezes, breath stilling in his chest.

Sam says, "I guess there's nothing else we can do," and Dean turns his head, finally, to see Sam looking off into the distance, eyes unfocused and mouth soft.

He clears his throat. "At least you're back to normal," he says, and Sam's fingers curl a little tighter, pressing into his pulse until he slouches back against the car, lets his weight fall into Sam's side. He follows the line of Sam's gaze and sees clouds, grey and gathering. He takes a deep breath and the breeze is just a little damp, the air moist and already starting to get that wet smell.

"You think it'll be a bad storm?" Sam says.

"I don't know." He reaches out blindly and gets his fingers around the bottle. When he tips his head back to take the last swallows of beer, he knows Sam's watching him. He licks his lips to get rid of the residue and feels Sam's chest expand in a breath, and something in his stomach stirs. "I guess we'll have to see."

"Right," Sam says.

Dean shifts a little, gets comfortable. Sam lets go of his wrist and slides his hand to the small of Dean's back. He folds his arms over his chest and leans into Sam's shoulder. He's a solid presence, warm in every place they touch from shoulder to hip to the long line of his leg, and Dean tilts his face up into the breeze, closes his eyes, and waits for the rain.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I thought about tagging this with Dissociative Identity Disorder, considering Sam's issues here, but that wasn't quite right--all of the personalities are Sam, they're just Sams with different sets of memories. And now they've all been smashed together. We'll see how that works out in the following story.
> 
> (Also, I never liked that Rufus died.)


End file.
